Creative writing

Creative Writing R. I. P Roy His room decorated with graphs, tags and throws. The floor hidden beneath paint covered clothes scattered everywhere, aerosol cans and paper covered in his new tag that he has been practicing. He puts on his pitch black hooded. The hood hides every detail of his face keeping his identity masked. Throwing his blood red bandanna and his spray paint cans stone cold from the paint concealed inside into his bag he is ready to burst out and create a masterpiece.

As he emerges from his house into the righting and unforgiving darkness his mind is consumed with thoughts of the one building with gigantic smooth white walls, perfect for his new tag. On his way to his main destination he graphs a few meaningless rotting wooden fences. Finally he reaches every daggers dream, the perfect spot to hit. He unzips his torn Nikkei backpack, pulls out his blood red bandanna and ties it to his face covering his nose and mouth. He does not want to inhale the dangerous fumes from the spray cans.

He removes his favorite bright red spray can from his bag. Holding it makes him feel powerful. He could create and design anything but he has to get his new tag out there that reads R. I. P Roy. It is dedicated to his little brother Roy who was caught in between a violent drive by and shot dead. While he is spraying the outline of his throw with reaching and curving movements, he gets that one feeling he chases. He suffers and pushes through his life full of abuse and hatred every day wanting this exhilaration.

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Full of satisfaction he fills in his tag, spraying highlight greens and lees, before he finishes his masterpiece with his personal scratch and the date. He stood there in serenity admiring his artwork. He hears faint but clear footsteps behind him, he turns around in a hurry then “smack” he gets smashed in the face with what felt like a freight train. He is lying on the ground with warm blood covering his face. He opens his eyes and sees three massive guys standing over him decorated in tattoos. One of them with a baseball bat. They search his bag and take all his things including his spray cans.

When they go to cap his masterpiece destroying all his hard work he gets consumed with rage. He breaks out he pulls out his silver jagged blade and without any hesitation he stabs one of the men in the back dropping him to the ground. The impact of what he had Just done hit him faster and harder than the baseball bat that shattered his nose. He ran faster than he has ever run in his whole life. Two men who looked like they could be MAMA fighters are right behind him. He scales interlinked wire fences with spiraling razor wire guarding the pop.

He loses his footing and slips, gashing his arm open and hits the ground with a “thud”. Although he is lying in a pool of his own warm blood, he is colder than ever before. With his last bit of strength he opens his eyes Just enough to make out the frightening matte black barrel of a pistol then “bang”. Everything started to fade away and feel better. His life is flashing before his eyes, his parent’s who were never there for him, his friends who always supported him, and his gang. Jamie Walker creative writing By Semiyearly 23